Let the Wind Rise

by Shannon Messenger

  She leads the way, and we charge forward, pushing our tired, aching limbs as hard as they can go.

  But it’s not fast enough.

  The pull of the Storms is too strong, and they drag us toward their merciless funnels.

  “Lock arms,” Vane shouts. “The heavier we are, the harder we are to pull.”

  Solana grabs him first, and I cling to her, my feet lifting off the ground as the Storm tears closer.

  “Pull harder,” Solana shouts, and our group surges forward, step by agonizing step until my feet drop back to the ground and I regain traction.

  “Toss me your wind spike,” Aston shouts, and Vane untangles his arm to throw it.

  Aston lets go to catch it, and without his weight, we’re sucked back toward the Storm.

  “Hang on,” Aston says, clinging to a tree with one hand and aiming the wind spike with the other.

  The weapon is sickly with pain now, and he hurls it straight through the Storm’s chest.

  Sallow steam leaks from the unraveling funnel, and the Storm unleashes a bellowing howl.

  “That’s our cue,” Aston shouts, grabbing Vane’s arm.

  “Not without this,” Vane says, commanding the wind spike to “come.”

  I wasn’t sure if it would obey, but it snaps to his hand as Aston drags him away.

  The air tries to pull Solana and me back, but we synchronize our steps and push through, collapsing as we cross the boundary of the circle.

  “Over here,” Aston orders, and we crawl to where they’ve taken shelter behind a cluster of boulders.

  None of the Storms break rank to follow us.

  “Just like I thought,” Aston says. “Raiden ordered them to focus on the battle. We can rest here for a second before we move on.”

  Vane crawls closer to me, taking my arms and searching for blood.

  “I’m okay,” I promise. “Nothing major.”

  He looks safe as well. A few cuts and scrapes on his face, but nothing deep enough to scar.

  “How’s your ankle?” I ask Solana.

  She circles her foot a few times. “I won’t slow you down.”

  “I’m not worried,” I tell her. I’m fairly certain I owe her my life. “How did you hear that first wind spike? I never would’ve seen it if you hadn’t grabbed me.”

  She curls her arms around herself. “My senses are stronger now that I’m carrying ruined drafts.”

  I try not to shudder, but the thought of being filled with tainted winds . . .

  “Yeah, I know it’s creepy,” she mumbles.

  “I don’t think creepy’s the right word,” I tell her. “More like . . . uncomfortable.”

  “So you aren’t disgusted by the power of pain anymore?” Aston asks.

  I’m stunned to realize I’m not. “The way she’s using it doesn’t seem to bother the sky. Why should I feel any different?”

  “Yes, but you realize she wouldn’t be able to use it her way if others weren’t abusing the power?” Aston reminds me.

  “So she’s managed to make the most of a difficult situation,” Vane says, but his voice sounds distracted.

  I follow his gaze and see him staring at a grayish building stationed near the base of the pointed rock.

  “I count twelve cars in the parking lot,” he mumbles. “So I’m guessing that means there’s about fifty people in there.”

  “I think you’re overestimating,” Aston tells him. “The structure feels mostly empty to me.”

  “Mostly empty isn’t the same as empty,” Vane reminds him.

  “It’s not,” Aston agrees. “Welcome to a moment when you’ll have to settle for ‘good enough.’ Shades of gray. Necessary evils. Much like what we’re letting happen over there.”

  He points to the battle we’ve just escaped, and from our higher vantage point things look far bleaker. The Gales are fighting the Stormers with windslicers, so there must still not be any useable winds. And for every Stormer fighting, there are two more watching from the sidelines, ready to swoop in as reinforcements if the others fall or tire.

  “Where’s my mother?” I ask, realizing I haven’t seen her.

  “She said she’d find higher ground and send reports on what’s happening. I doubt she’ll be much help, since you already made her mostly useless with that dramatic shoulder injury.”

  “Higher ground,” I repeat, checking the field again. “We’re at the highest point right now, aren’t we? Other than the rock face where Raiden’s waiting? And she’s not here, is she?”

  “Oh, wonderful,” Vane grumbles. “What deal do you think she’s striking with Raiden this time? Handing all four of us over—maybe with whipped cream and a cherry on top?”

  “I can’t imagine she’d be that foolish,” Aston says.

  I roll my eyes. “Clearly you don’t know my mother.”

  “Actually, she and I are closer than you’d think. Every time I absorb her pain I understand her better—but that’s not what I meant about her being foolish. She’s very aware that I’ve made the same threat as Raiden. I know what draft she’s protecting. And I know the command to destroy it.”

  “You wouldn’t,” I whisper as everything inside me coats with frost.

  “Oh, I think you know me well enough to know that I very much would. I’m like a thunderhead that way. I can look soft and fluffy. But get too close and I will blast the heart right out of you.”

  “No one’s blasting the heart out of anyone,” Vane tells him, “unless it’s Raiden. Or Arella—if she really is off cutting another deal. And if you do anything that hurts Audra—or her father’s songs—I’ll show you just how violent a Westerly’s capable of being.”

  “Good,” Aston says. “Keep that darkness close. You’re going to need it when we get to Raiden.”

  “Speaking of which,” Solana jumps in, “shouldn’t we get working on that? The Storms are closing in on the Gales.”

  “I was hoping your little Westerly might return with a few reinforcements before we press on,” Aston tells me.

  I’ve been counting on the same thing. But no matter how far I stretch my senses, I can’t feel any winds.

  “I have five drafts tucked away,” Solana offers. “Three Southerlies, a Northerly, and an Easterly—plus the two ruined winds I caught.”

  “And I used four in that wind spike,” Vane adds. “And I have a Westerly shield.”

  “Still not enough for what I was thinking,” Aston says. “We’ll just have to improvise.”

  “What if we . . .” Solana’s voice trails off, and she closes her eyes. “I think I know a command that will blur our forms as we move—I just have to think it through to make sure it’s useable.”

  She reaches for my hands and stares into my eyes.

  It takes me a second to realize she’s testing her motives.

  I suppose protecting the girl who stole your betrothed is about as unselfish an act as possible.

  “Okay,” she whispers, her hands starting to shake. “I don’t think it’ll stretch very wide, so we’re going to have to huddle together.”

  She takes a deep breath before hissing a string of garbled words.

  “Fascinating,” Aston breathes as a gray draft crawls out of her skin and forms a loose funnel around us. “I never would’ve thought to make that request.”

  “What did she say?” I ask.

  “It’s best not to explain to someone who doesn’t use the power,” he says. “We wouldn’t want to awaken the hunger.”

  The air whips faster and faster, turning to a blur.

  “Are you okay?” Vane asks, steadying Solana as she wobbles.

  “It’s just a little draining,” she says. “How’s the craving in my eyes?”

  He leans closer, and she seems to hold her breath. “Wow, I only see the tiniest glint.”

  “As do I,” Aston agrees. “I must admit, I’m rather disappointed. I’ve been hoping you were wrong about this selflessness thing, since it doesn’t sound like a whole lot
of fun. I guess I should count myself lucky that I’m too far gone for it to matter. You ready to move?”

  Solana nods, and we creep out of the rocks, trying our best not to kick one another’s heels as we move.

  “How is this hiding us?” Vane asks.

  “It’s similar to how we disguise our forms when we fly,” Solana tells him. “I convinced the draft to combine our traces, so it’ll feel like there’s only one of us. And it’s weak and muffled, so Raiden might not even notice it. But if he does, he’ll think it’s a lone Gale. He definitely won’t be prepared for the four of us.”

  We move in silence after that, making the slow climb up the rock formation.

  I stretch out my senses, trying to home in on Raiden’s exact location. But either we’re too far away, or Raiden’s too good at hiding.

  “By the way,” Solana whispers, turning to look at Aston. “I don’t believe that anyone can ever be too far gone.”

  “Even Raiden?” Vane interrupts.

  “He’s different,” she says. “He’s the one who started messing with the power. And even if he could change his ways, he’s done too much to be redeemed.”

  “As have I,” Aston tells her. “I know you still see me as that eager-to-help Gale—but I can’t even remember being him. And the things I’ve done since then would give you nightmares.”

  “But you’re here now,” Solana whispers. “I saw how terrified you were in that tunnel outside Brezengarde. And still, you came back—and now you’re marching up to face Raiden, knowing our chances aren’t good.”

  “So really, we should be questioning my sanity,” he says with a forced smile. Several seconds later he adds, “I just . . . want this all to be over.”

  I can’t tell what he means, but the sadness in his tone turns my heart heavy.

  He clears his throat. “We should pause in that crevice ahead. It’s making me twitchy that I can’t get a reading on Raiden. I know he’s good—but he’s not this good.”

  We ease into the crack—which is much cozier than it looked from the outside—and I end up pressed rather tightly against Vane.

  “Sorry,” he whispers, trying to find somewhere to put his arms.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him, pulling his hands to rest on my hips. “I don’t mind.”

  A teasing glint sparks to life in his eyes, but it’s gone just as fast, and he turns his face away, eyes on the ground.

  I want to grab his chin and force him to look at me—talk to me. Explain his complicated mixed signals.

  But time is never on our side.

  “Is anyone getting anything?” Aston whispers. “Though I should probably limit the question to Solana since you lovebirds clearly have your minds other places.”

  His raised eyebrows fuel my blush, and I close my eyes and listen to the sky. “Everything feels empty.”

  “That’s what I’m sensing too,” Solana agrees.

  “Everything is empty,” a new voice says, and my brain screams, NOT AGAIN!

  We all look up to find my mother standing over our crevice with one of her loyal crows perched on her shoulder.

  “You can’t sense Raiden,” she says, “because he’s not here.”

  CHAPTER 43

  VANE

  What do you mean Raiden’s not here?” I ask as I scramble out of the crack we’ve been hiding in—trying not to bruise Audra in the process.

  “I thought the statement was self-explanatory.” Arella reaches up to stroke her ugly crow, and I wish it would bite her. “Raiden’s not here—and I don’t just mean on this rock. Apparently he’s skipping this whole battle.”

  “How do we know this isn’t another one of your tricks?” Audra asks, jumping out of the crack and pointing her windslicer at her mother’s heart.

  Arella rolls her eyes. “Your senses are giving you the same message, aren’t they? It seems Raiden elected to let his army handle the matter for him.”

  “That doesn’t sound like him,” Aston says as he hefts himself out of the crevice and helps Solana climb out with her weak ankle. “Maybe for a quick snatch-and-grab mission. But he sent his entire force.”

  “That was my thought as well,” Arella says. “And why I’ve circled every inch of the battlefield. I even called on a bird to be my eyes when the sky grew too treacherous.”

  The crow caws, making me jump.

  Freaking birds.

  “Do you think he’s waiting for something before he arrives?” Solana asks. “Trying to catch us off guard?”

  “Or maybe he knew he’d lose this time, so he’s cowering at Brezengarde,” I say, trying to think positive.

  “I suppose both are possible,” Aston says, “though the latter seems unlikely—especially since the Gales aren’t exactly triumphing out there.”

  He’s right.

  The sound of the fight keeps echoing this way, and . . . it doesn’t sound good.

  I kick the ground so hard it showers us in bits of rock and dirt. “Sorry.”

  It’s just . . .

  Raiden not being here ruins our whole plan—which is probably the real reason he’s playing hooky. And if he’s holed up in Brezengarde, I . . . can’t go back there.

  I know we escaped once. But I can feel it deep in my gut. We’ll never beat Raiden on his home turf.

  And God—does this mean all those people are still snowed in at that hotel?

  I kick the ground again, and Audra places her hand on my shoulder to calm me.

  “So what do we do?” I ask.

  “Maybe we should circle back and fight with the Gales,” Audra says. “They could definitely use some backup.”

  We all turn to study the battle. The Gales are outnumbered five to one—and soon it’ll be six or seven to one, judging by all the red stains on the ground.

  “Why are there still so many Stormers hanging in the mush-pot?” I ask.

  “I’m assuming you mean the cluster of soldiers waiting in the center,” Aston says. “And I’d wager they’re the ones who’ve been charged responsible for our capture. If Raiden was going to skip a battle, he’d make sure his best warriors save their strength to scoop up his spoils and bring them back to where he’s waiting. I doubt he cares about learning Westerly anymore, but I’m sure he wants you to die knowing he stole the one thing you gave your life to protect.”

  “Then we can’t go down there, right?” Solana asks.

  “So we just stand here and watch them all die?” Audra argues.

  “Besides, won’t the rested Stormers just come after us anyway?” I ask.

  Either way—Raiden wins.

  It all feels so pointless.

  I keep trying to take control—keep trying to tell myself I can beat this.

  But Raiden’s like the kid in my fourth-grade class who liked to catch Japanese beetles, tie string around their bodies, and hold on to one end.

  The dumb bugs would fly around in circles, and sometimes he’d let the string go slack. Let the beetles think they were finally going to fly free—and then SMACK! They were splatters of green goo on his baseball bat.

  I’m tired of being a dumb bug—and I really really really don’t want any of us to end up green goo.

  Raiden thinks he can beat me without even showing up.

  Well . . . screw that.

  We’re the good guys, dammit!

  We’re supposed to pull it together and have that “group shot” moment. Like in the comic book movies when all the heroes gather up and the score gets louder and the camera does one of those fancy 360-shot things and everyone’s like, “RAWR—GO TEAM AWESOME!” And then they dive back in, kicking butt and taking names until the bad dudes explode or get blasted into another dimension or something.

  That.

  We need that.

  But how do we pull that off in reality? Especially a funky reality where we can control the wind, but the bad guys can too?

  Except . . . they don’t have the power of four—and that’s what this whole mess is about, isn’t
it?

  “Solana, didn’t you say you had a Northerly, an Easterly, and some Southerlies stored away?” I ask.

  She nods. “Why? What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking . . . are you a Northerly?” I ask Aston.

  “I am, actually,” he says. “But if this is a power-of-four thing, haven’t we established that your tricks falter against the power of pain?”

  “Have we really?” I ask. “Or have we established that the two powers are different? Because we pulled off something pretty awesome when we were trying to get away from Brezengarde. I kinda forgot about it, since what happened to Gus totally killed the victory. But before that, we used the power of four—and it worked.”

  “It did,” Audra chimes in. “There were four of us then, too. And we each used our native wind and gave the command in our native tongue. Our drafts told us what to say, and somehow we made a foehn, and it melted the snow and took out most of the Stormers, before reinforcements arrived. If we ask the wind for help again, maybe it’ll come up with something even better.”

  Aston sighs. “It would be a lot easier to get behind this plan if we hadn’t been so horribly abandoned by that Westerly you called over.”

  Yeah, that really does suck.

  I don’t get why that wind didn’t want to help.

  “But just because one draft lets us down,” I say, “doesn’t mean they all will.”

  “I think it’s our best chance,” Solana adds. “At least we’ll be coming at them with something they won’t be prepared for.”

  She releases three of her drafts, sending the Easterly to Audra, the Northerly to Aston, and keeping the Southerly for herself.

  I untangle my Westerly shield, begging it to swirl with the others and not drift away.

  “What about me?” Arella asks.

  “We don’t need you.”

  I might be imagining the joy in Audra’s voice, but I’m pretty sure she’s wanted to say those words to her mother for ten years.

  “So what am I supposed to do?” Aston asks.

  “Right now, it’s all about listening.” Audra holds out her hands, and Solana and I each take one.

  Aston sighs as he reaches out and completes the circle—and I’ll admit the whole process does feel a little “Kumbayah.” But as I beg the winds for help and focus on their lyrics, I can hear their songs slowly synchronizing.